


hope someone's gonna take me home

by sharkfights (feartown)



Category: UnREAL (TV)
Genre: F/F, [into a megaphone] JEREMY IS THE WORST PERSON ON THIS HOT TRASH PLANET
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 13:40:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7847239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feartown/pseuds/sharkfights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's meant to just be a fact - two plus two is four, the Earth is round, Quinn loves Rachel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hope someone's gonna take me home

**Author's Note:**

> listen yo i was happy to concede that the closest you could get to quinn/rachel being canon was quinn maybe having slightly more than platonic feelings for rachel but never admitting them, but then the last two episodes happened and now nothing will convince me that they're heterosexual. IT'S ONLY A MATTER OF TIME/someone telling the showrunners that jeremy doesn't deserve a fuckin redemption arc, _yeesh_

She finds Rachel out in the hall, fingers slack around a bottle of wine as she stares at her shoes. There’s a stain on her shirt, but Quinn doesn’t ask about it when she sits down next to Rachel because she’s not sure she wants to know.

For a while, there’s just muddy silence, broken up by the breaths Rachel is sucking in to bring herself back down from crying. Despite herself, Quinn feels something hot clutch at her heart every time Rachel hiccups, and finds herself sliding a hand around Rachel's arm so her fingers sit warm in the crease of her elbow. That’s where Quinn feels like she fits with Rachel, just in those messy creases of her life where Rachel has no footing, the darker parts she doesn’t want to look at. Quinn is okay with staying in Rachel’s shadows, because that's where Rachel inevitably finds herself too.

Quinn swipes a finger over the solitary tear she can see trailing down Rachel’s cheek – not with any particular tenderness, just because it bothers her that Rachel won’t do it herself.

Rachel flinches at the touch, but then Quinn feels her arm muscles loosen, her shoulders droop again in defeat.

“I shouldn’t have agreed to room with Jeremy,” Rachel tells her shoes.

“Well, anybody could have told you that was a bad idea, Rachel,” Quinn replies, and lets Rachel rest most of her weight against her side. Rachel feeling sorry for herself isn’t usually something she enjoys dealing with professionally, but here in this yellowish hallway Rachel’s wine-heavy, unkempt disappointment in herself is almost… comfortable.

“You can’t sleep out here, though,” Quinn says, nudging Rachel’s shoulder. “Hotels don’t let the homeless sleep inside.”

Rachel mumbles something about finding Madison to get keys for a van, and Quinn lets out a noise of disgust.

“You’re also not sleeping _out_ side. Come on, get up.”

Quinn shucks her heels before trying to help Rachel to her feet, peeling the wine bottle away from her fingers when they’re both finally standing. She tucks a lock of hair behind Rachel’s ear - not roughly, but with the kind of deliberate, sure movements that she finds she wants to use with Rachel a lot. Rachel, malleable and tired, looks at Quinn like she’s searching for something to reassure herself.

Quinn doesn’t know if she’s going to find it.

Inside Quinn’s room, Rachel heads for the couch in the other part of the suite but Quinn pulls her back. “I’m not completely heartless, Goldberg,” Quinn says, then holds up a finger when she sees Rachel about to protest, “It’s too late for this. Get undressed.”

When Rachel doesn’t comply with her request and decides to perch on the edge of the bed, watching Quinn take off her own dress instead, she tries her best not to think about it. Quinn knows that Rachel’s… whatever it is that Rachel feels, the creature that she hides away but that Quinn still catches a glimpse of sometimes… is fickle. She knows Rachel won’t fully acknowledge it – just looks at it out of the corner of her eye, wondering if it will come closer.

It’s what makes her watch Quinn with a detached fascination; her eyes follow the line of her hip, the bend of her arms around her back as she undoes the clasp of her bra. But she won’t do anything else. The room is thick with it all, and Quinn finally puts a matching set of pajamas over the feeling, breaking Rachel’s gaze at the same time. Tonight isn’t the night.

Rachel crawls into bed, fully clothed, but Quinn stops her from getting comfortable.

“No,” she says, the first thing she’s said in ten minutes. It comes out hoarse. “No jeans in the bed.”

Rachel struggles for a moment to pull them off, her bare knees coming to settle somewhere around Quinn’s thigh. As she falls asleep, Quinn lets a leg shift back so they touch.

 

They don’t talk about it.

 

***

 

_I love you_.

Raw is the word she would have used if a contestant had spoken to a suitor like that. Raw like a wound, like the flesh of her hand torn to ribbons.

It's meant to just be a fact - two plus two is four, the Earth is round, Quinn loves Rachel. It's not meant to sound like it's ripping her soul apart; it's not meant to make Rachel look at her like that, like she's remembering every interaction they've ever had with that _I love you_ echoing in the background. She holds tight to the back of Rachel's jacket and Rachel holds tight to her, with Quinn hoping that her terribly simple words haven't further complicated the relationship they so recently repaired. 

Rachel doesn’t say anything back but she takes both Quinn’s hands and leads her out of the control room. She leads her to a van and drives it to the apartment Quinn rents and into the pristine bathroom to the pristine tiles on the floor and that’s where they sit for over an hour. Tired, broken, murmuring with apologies. It’s enough to make Quinn feel like she’s in her own body again.

Rachel dresses her hand, because Rachel knows how to make a mess but she can also clean one up, and she wasn’t going to let anyone else do it anyway. Rachel folds Quinn’s hands back into her lap and leans in to tell her that babies cry all night, like it’s a secret only Rachel has been in on. Then she reminds Quinn that she hates crying unless it’s on camera and Quinn finally cracks a smile.

“There it is,” Rachel says, but she sleeps on the couch.

 

***

 

It’s different after Coleman and Yael.

Rachel watches her across the line of loungers and Quinn looks back at her with the very simple expression she can see mirrored on Rachel’s face: what now?

Quinn had felt on top of the world again with Rachel back at her shoulder – her rightful place to stand back and watch their kingdom burn. Now she feels just as mired as she did a few days ago, trying to wade through the swamp of other people’s mistakes.

Rachel finds her as night finally sets in, darkness swallowing the shipwreck of their day. She goes straight to where she knows the liquor is kept and pulls out the bourbon, not bothering to ask how Quinn is doing because she already knows.

The glass she hands Quinn is taken with a purposefully steady hand, and when Rachel sits down on the couch next to her she doesn’t care that she’s much too close. They sit silently for a long time, not needing to discuss the weight of two more bodies on their shoulders.

“Did you mean what you said?” Rachel asks suddenly, fingers rubbing at imaginary marks on her glass. She’s hedging, and Quinn isn’t having it.

“It’s been a long fucking day, Goldberg.”

“Earlier,” Rachel replies, then pauses. “I’m not perfect.”

Quinn looks at her, straight down the barrel. It’s not something she was planning on talking about tonight – or ever – but Rachel is looking at her with such insecurity that she doesn’t think there’s any way around it.

“You’re perfect to me,” Quinn says finally, staring into her drink.

When Rachel leans in over Quinn’s knees, her hair spilling messily over her shoulders, it takes Quinn a minute to realize what’s happening. She only gets a quick look at Rachel’s big wet deer eyes before she feels the gentle press of her mouth, a hand warm on the side of her face. It’s only a second before Rachel’s pulled back again, and then she gets up altogether and mumbles about a shower.

Rachel doesn’t come back from the bathroom until Quinn is ready to find a bed, but she follows her like a shadow up the stairs, moving as though Quinn is going to get spooked if she walks too fast. Quinn doesn’t know what room they go into, only knows that Rachel has learned the rules by now and shucks her jeans before she turns out the light and gets in bed.

Lying flat and rigid on her back Quinn can’t remember a time she felt more tightly-wound – she can smell the dampness of Rachel’s hair and the soap she used, it tickles the back of her throat and makes her fingers itch to reach out. She desperately wants to know what Rachel’s mouth tastes like beyond a smudge of bourbon and chapstick, but she also knows that that particular ball is still in Rachel’s court.

Rachel is as tense as she is, coiled like a spring. Quinn is sure they’ll lie here for hours, finally drifting fitfully into sleep and waking up later to continue sailing past Rachel’s indecision like they always do.

However, just as Quinn is about to start faking sleep she feels Rachel shift, feels her weight on top of her and her hands searching for Quinn’s face in the dark. Not really believing it, Quinn tilts her chin and then Rachel’s mouth is on her, hot and frantic and molding into something that feels all too close to perfection.

Leaning in, all she can think is:  _finally_.

 

 

 

Morning breaks like an ulcer, the sun rising with a twinge of red. Rachel shifts next to her and Quinn cracks an eye open, looking at the long curve of her back against the stark white of the sheets. Rachel, it seems, is as gifted at producing orgasms as she is contestants, and despite her headache Quinn chuckles at that thought.

“What,” comes gruffly from beneath the pillows, and Rachel surfaces. It’s not so much a question as it is an expression of noise, but regardless she turns to Quinn and looks at her expectantly.

“If I’d known you were this good in bed I’d have bagged you a long time ago, Goldberg.”

Rachel waggles her eyebrows, their usual effect lost given that her eyes are ninety percent closed.

The effect is not lost when Quinn drags her closer by the chin, kissing her soundly on the mouth until Rachel is on top of her again, an encouraging hand spreading her knee wide. Quinn is more than certain that here – in a nest of sheets and sex, the sunlight through the window so warm and dusty – is one of the best places to be on this shitty earth. Not that she’s remotely ready to tell Rachel that, of course.

Rachel’s mouth slides down her chest, and in the harsh light of day Quinn feels oddly shy about her body as it relates to Rachel – not as young as hers, her very sinew hardened by years of stress and hands she doesn’t even remember if she really wanted. Rachel doesn’t seem to have any qualms as she nicks her teeth over the jut of Quinn’s hipbone, though, her tongue slicking over the redness she leaves behind. Quinn tenses as Rachel moves to the crease of her thigh, muscles contracting with the anticipation of Rachel’s tongue doing the same things her fingers were last night, and then—

Jeremy walks in.

“What the f—”

Quinn isn’t sure which one of the three of them says it, and in a flurry of movement Rachel scrambles back up Quinn’s body to shield her from Jeremy, flinging every swear word she knows at him while hiding her face in Quinn's neck. However Jeremy, hands already over his eyes, is saying “shit, sorry” over and over again and making too many vague noises of disgust to even register how many clothes they might not have on. Typical.

“I was just—Chet wants—”

“I don’t care what Chet wants,” Quinn replies, but unfortunately it’s not enough to make Jeremy leave the room the way he’s supposed to.

Rolling her eyes, Quinn moves the hand Rachel has chivalrously placed over one of her breasts and gets out of the bed. Stalking right up to Jeremy, Quinn shoves him out the door. As she closes it behind him she leans out into the hall and says, “If that booze-soaked asshole you call a mouth blabs a word of this to anyone you’ll never work again.”

When she turns around and goes back to bed Rachel is looking at her with something resembling awe, and Quinn feels caught off guard.

“What?” she barks, to hide it, and slides into bed where Rachel has made room.

“Nothing. I mean, just… like aren’t you worried he’s going straight to Chet with this right now? It’ll go around the whole set that we’re...” she trails off pointedly.

“Fucking?” Quinn finishes for her. “You can say it, Rachel, it’s not like chanting ‘Bloody Mary’ into the mirror. There’s no old witch coming to curse your vagina for not putting a dick in it last night.”

When she sees Rachel’s expression unchanged, she rolls her eyes again. She loves Rachel with the drive of a thousand wild horses, but her propensity for doom and gloom is already turning into a real boner killer.

“Rachel, Jeremy is an insignificant alcoholic baby, and we are two grown adults who are free to do whatever we want with whoever we want,” Quinn says. Wending a hand under the sheets she slides a palm over one of Rachel’s breasts, teasing, and trails it down over her hip. Without thinking, Rachel sucks in an airy breath and shifts to try and inspire Quinn’s fingers to move where she wants them.

Quinn smiles with a hint of teeth.

“Mmm, not so worried about regretting last night’s… activities now, are we?”

“I never said I regretted it,” Rachel says, any conviction lost in the whiny way she says it, her hips gently trying to find friction against Quinn’s thigh. She grips Rachel harder, her nails digging into the softness around her hipbone, and lets out a derisive snort.

“Yeah _right_ , Rachel. You regret a second donut from crafty; I’m not an idiot.”

Keeping her eyes fixed on Rachel’s, Quinn slides her fingers down to where Rachel is already wet, letting them sit tight against her and doing nothing else. Rachel whimpers in the back of her throat, but knows Quinn won’t give her anything if she moves a muscle. They know each other so well that it should scare her, but Quinn can’t really feel anything other than satisfaction about it.

Quinn looks up at her with renewed feeling. Who needs men anyway, she thinks. There’s no one who could hold a candle to what Rachel knows.

“Tell me what you want,” Quinn says, her voice rougher than gravel.

Rachel’s eyes flutter closed and she bites her lip, making Quinn want to throw this whole game out the window and just go to town, but she stays her hand and waits for Rachel’s reply.

Her eyes open suddenly, pupils blown as wide as saucers, and Quinn feels Rachel’s thighs contract with need.

With a hitch in her breath, Rachel says, “I want you inside me.”

Quinn fights to keep her own hips still at that, and raises an eyebrow as she situates her fingers so Rachel can slide onto them.

She gets the message and after a moment sinks, sinfully slowly, until Quinn is buried to the knuckle. Rachel’s gaze flicks to Quinn’s mouth and holds her wrist in place so she can rise back up again, starting a rhythm that has Quinn’s entire body on fire. She’s never been used as a prop for anything in her life, but watching her fingers disappear inside Rachel as she rides them is certainly something she can make an exception for.

Rocking almost comically, Quinn knows Rachel is putting on a show but she can also hear the whine sitting low in her throat; see the flush in her chest; feel the clutch of her hand around Quinn’s wrist as she grinds down over and over.

Despite their relatively matched size, Quinn finds it easy to flip them, pinning Rachel’s free arm to the bed as she nudges her leg wider with an insistent knee. Finding Rachel’s ear Quinn sucks on the skin beneath it, listening to her pants coming louder and higher, relishing in the fact that Rachel is too far gone to be anything but totally, completely into this. Quinn replaces two fingers inside Rachel with three and thrusts until Rachel is keening under her, nails digging hard into Quinn's skin. The hand still around Quinn’s wrist grips like a vice as Rachel tries to take as much of Quinn inside her as she can, and when Quinn finds her clit she comes with a noise that’s close to a scream.

Pulling back slightly, Quinn watches Rachel’s chest heave until her breathing starts to slow, then stretches out beside her and closes her eyes against the cramp pinging up her arm.

She can feel, after a moment, that Rachel is watching her.

“What?” she asks.

Rachel doesn’t say anything, so Quinn finally looks at her. What she sees throws her a little; Rachel’s frown is faint but her expression holds more weight than an ocean – Quinn would mistake it for fury if they were in any other situation.

Leaning over, Rachel kisses her hard, and Quinn doesn’t know how to stop the swell of emotion that rolls through her chest and grips hard at her heart. 

Neither of them are going to say _I love you_ , because they both know it would just feel tacky. When Rachel pulls away Quinn ignores the sting at the edge of her eyes, the water in Rachel’s, and nods.

 

 

She's always wanted a partner in crime.

**Author's Note:**

> @hateful-witch on tumblr if you wanna tell me any hot goss


End file.
